


Chicken and Fried Rice

by migratoryslashfan



Series: Chicken Soup for the Undead Werewolf Soul [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s03e10 The Overlooked, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sick Peter, Steter Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/migratoryslashfan/pseuds/migratoryslashfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the tussle at the hospital and passing out from the epinephrine injection, Peter wakes in Derek's loft. He isn't alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken and Fried Rice

**Author's Note:**

> First part of a new series I'm working on, in which Peter and Stiles take turns taking care of each other. Includes some minor canonical differences, but mostly compliant.
> 
> Also, some of them end on a "sad" note, but don't worry, the series has a happy ending. :)

"I made a bet with Derek that you'd be asleep a full twenty-four hours," Stiles said, the sound of his voice piercing the fog of fading dreams.

Peter lay on his stomach, one arm hanging limp over the side of the bed, blinking at the thin rays of sunlight slipping between the blinds. With a fair bit of willpower, he managed to pull his arm onto the bed, hand beneath his shoulder to push himself halfway up, every muscle in his body weighed down with the fatigue of overuse.

He would definitely _not_ be injecting epinephrine ever again.

"Of course, you had to wake up _now_ ," Stiles continued, somewhere behind him.

Peter turned his head to see Stiles sitting next to him on the bed, computer on his lap and dirty shoes leaving marks where he sat atop the sheets.

 _At least it's Derek's bed_ , Peter told himself.

"You couldn't have waited, oh, I don't know," Stiles glanced at his watch, "seventeen more minutes?"

Peter finally found the strength to open his mouth. "I slept that long?"

"Yes, you did," Stiles replied, the hint of mischievousness in his voice not going unnoticed to Peter. "And now I get to drive you home. Lucky me."

He thought about some of the dreams he'd been having and hoped like hell that he hadn't been making obscene noises or mumbling something embarrassing while Stiles was in the room. "That was the wager? Loser has to be my babysitter?"

Stiles cleared his throat, his attention wavering from the laptop to Peter for a moment before returning to his research. "So you weren't lying about not being in fighting shape," he said.

"No, I wasn't," Peter replied. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, leaning back hard against the headboard, wishing he could just sink into it and go back to sleep. He didn't feel that much stronger than when he collapsed in a heap in Derek's living room, vaguely recalling Derek hauling his ass to the bed before he lost consciousness altogether.

"Well, you obviously needed the--"

"Where's Cora?"

"She's with Derek," Stiles said, finally looking up at Peter and meeting his eyes. "She's fine."

"Good," Peter said, sighing as he let his eyes droop shut. "That's good. What else did I miss?"

Stiles sighed beside him.

"Ms. Blake is missing," Stiles said.

"The guardians?" Peter said softly, almost afraid to ask.

"We got 'em back," Stiles said. "Scratched and bruised, but they're alive."

Peter glared curiously at Stiles. "And you're here?"

Stiles gestured for him to extrapolate.

"I'd have thought you'd be clinging to your father once you got him back," Peter explained.

"Oh, believe me, I tried to," Stiles said. "Chris is helping him fortify holding cells for the Alphas. He doesn't want me anywhere near them when they bring 'em in."

"That's smart for you," Peter said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "But not very bright for him. They don't really expect a jail cell to hold an Alpha werewolf, do they?"

"Where are you going?" Stiles clambered up off the bed, following Peter towards Derek's closet.

"I'm borrowing a clean shirt," Peter said, "so I can go find someone who'll put the Alphas down for good."

"Hey, I'm all for that, personally, but my dad--"

"Your father doesn't know what he's dealing with," Peter said sharply, facing Stiles with a finger pointed squarely at his chest. "You may have told him the truth about the supernatural, but don't think for a second that makes him fully equipped to handle it."

"What, you can't give him a chance to try?"

"Come on, Stiles," Peter said, "you're smarter than that."

Stiles sighed, running a hand through his already-ruffled hair. Peter hadn't been around for the near-suicide he'd attempted with Scott and Allison, and if it hadn't been for Isaac, his dad would already be dead. Peter was right; Stiles was smart enough to realize just how lucky he'd been lately. Still, that was no reason for an undead werewolf in need of a power-up to go off half-cocked looking for Alpha pack trouble.

"Fine," Stiles said. "You know how smart I am? Well, what my 'smartness' is telling me right now is that you're in no better shape to go after the Alphas than any human. So I'm taking you home. Then my conscience is clear, and whatever you do from there is on your head and not mine."

Stiles watched as Peter continued rifling through Derek's closet, picking out a grey t-shirt, not missing for one second the way Peter tried to hold himself up by edging his hip against the closet door.

 _You shouldn't leave him alone,_ Stiles found himself thinking.

He pushed the thought away. _Not my problem._

"Why don't I just save you the trouble and clear your conscience now?" Peter asked. "Or I could give you that beating to unconsciousness I keep promising you. Your call."

"My call is, I pull up to your building, you get out of my Jeep," Stiles said. "Take it or leave it."

Peter rolled his eyes, searching the room for his shoes. "As if you could stop me."

As Peter bent to scan under the bed for his remaining shoe, Stiles tipped the toe of his shoe against Peter's thigh, causing him to stumble as he straightened himself.

Stiles inclined his head with a raised eyebrow, taunting Peter with his own weakness. He might still have the physical advantage over Stiles, but he'd tire himself out before he could get out the door.

"Seriously?" Peter glared at him. "Are you really that juvenile?"

"Do you wanna test me?"

Peter sighed, sitting down to pull on his shoes. He paused in the lacing, drawing in a long breath.

"Dude," Stiles said, the single word enough to convey the evidence right under his nose that Peter was barely on his feet to begin with.

"I'm fine," Peter said. "I'll be stronger after the trip downtown anyway."

"Whatever you say, Evil Dead."

It was good Stiles had insisted on taking Peter home--the guy could barely get himself up the sidewalk to his building's front entrance when they arrived, and Stiles had to park and get out to help him get the door open.

At first he thought Peter was just being melodramatic or something, but the building's front door was heavy oak. Even Stiles had to use much of his weight to get the damn thing open.

"Jeez, I hope there aren't any little old ladies in this building," Stiles said, hauling the door wide. He gestured for Peter to go in, and Peter, looking slightly perturbed (at himself or Stiles, Stiles wasn't sure) about the whole situation.

"Great," Peter mumbled, looking at the staircase before him.

"What floor?" Stiles asked.

"The fourth," Peter groaned.

"Elevator?"

"Out of order."

"Great," Stiles repeated. "Well, up you go. I'll... catch you if you fall, I guess."

Peter put his weight on the banister of the staircase and began to march slowly up the steps.

Once on his floor, Peter stopped at apartment number 7, leaning against the wall by the door as he caught his breath.

"You're not gonna die on me, are you?" Stiles asked.

Peter glared up at him.

Stiles held his hands up in surrender. "Okay," he said. "Death glare received. No more concern."

"I believe you're conflating concern with sarcasm," Peter noted.

He pulled out his keys and before he could push off the wall, Stiles had the keys out of his hand and got the right key in the door lock on the second try.

Stiles wasn't sure why he was even still helping Peter; he just hadn't found an escapable moment yet.

Peter shuffled through the door, kicking his shoes off at the entrance and making his way to the couch.

"What about your plans to destroy the Alpha pack?" Stiles asked, setting the keys on a stand by the door.

"It'll keep," Peter replied, covering his face with his arm. "I'm sure your father and the Argents can handle a couple of werewolves."

"Oh, really? Changing tunes on me already?"

Peter was quiet so long that Stiles thought he'd fallen asleep again. He briefly wondered if he could add the minutes to his count and declare himself the winner of the bet.

Too bad he'd already paid the wager.

"I have a high metabolism, you know," Peter said, and if that wasn't an interesting segue, Stiles didn't know what was.

"Is that relevant?"

"Very," Peter said. "My body burned through that epinephrine I injected like it was water. If I were at my normal strength, I doubt it would've had such an effect as this, but as it stands... essentially, I crashed, and my body's trying to reset itself. Only, it's taking longer than usual because I wasn't up to my normal performance level to begin with."

Stiles considered what Peter had said. "Well, have you eaten anything lately?"

"No," Peter said. "There were more pressing matters, what with Cora dying right in front of us. Thinking about food was on the bottom of the list."

Stiles threw a glance towards the kitchen, than another back to Peter.

"It'd probably be a good idea to eat then," Stiles said. "Now that you have the chance."

Soft snoring came from the couch then; Peter was out again.

"Great," Stiles said. Then he rolled up his sleeves, shut the front door, and headed for the kitchen himself. "Let's see what kinds of human foods you eat."

When Peter awoke an hour later, Stiles was entering the living room from the kitchen, a tray in his hands which he set on the coffee table before him. The smell had been the deciding factor in Peter waking from his fitful dreams; their recurrence absorbed him, but until he could understand the dreams, he wouldn't get upset over them.

"What's this?" Peter asked.

"Chicken and fried rice," Stiles said.

"You cooked," Peter murmured, staring at the tray of food as he sat up. "You cooked for me."

"Looked like you needed it," Stiles said. He returned to the kitchen. "I'll clear up in here and get out of your way."

Peter was halfway through the meal when Stiles emerged again minutes later.

"Guess I was right then," Stiles said.

"It would seem so," Peter said, mindful not to speak with food in his mouth.

"Well," Stiles said, shuffling towards the door. "See ya around, I guess."

Before Peter could reply, Stiles was gone.

His apartment suddenly silent, Peter could feel Stiles' absence from the room, and he realized just how lonely he now felt by himself.


End file.
